


Musings of a Man

by Joiedevivre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Childhood, Drabble, Episode Related, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Memories, Missing Scene, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joiedevivre/pseuds/Joiedevivre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft remembers that things weren't always this way. But then again, things weren't always this good either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Musings of a Man

Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft knows. It's something he learned the hard, a very hard way, back when he'd first entered politics, and he'd rather not talk about it, thank you. It was a lesson he will not forget. But when it comes to his little brother, caring is a disadvantage he embraces with his whole heart. Sherlock is worth every risk. How could he possibly feel any less? He raised him. His little brother. His strange, solitary little brother. After their parents died, who else was going to look after him? Who else could possibly understand Sherlock's moods and mind? The older he got, the more eccentric he became, the less open he was and the more withdrawn from the world. 

His mind wanders to when they were children, when Sherlock donned a paper pirate's hat and challenged the cat to a duel. He had looked so fierce, all of four years old and smarter than children twice his age, but with absurd silly side that hardly anyone could have guessed. He had won the duel with the cat by default; upon seeing the wooden sword waved in its face, the cat had bolted for the nearest tree. Sherlock was left threatening the empty air where the tabby had been. When Mycroft approached, he looked up with a beaming smile and giggled sweetly with innocent joy, the corners of his wide-set blue eyes crinkled happily. "I win," he informed his brother, voice high and triumphant. "The cowardly cat turned tail and ran!" 

"So he did," Mycroft replied, a bit more severely than necessary. "Leave the cat be and come inside. It's time for dinner." He had watched, forcing himself to be mature and stern, while Sherlock pulled off his paper hat, shook out his mussed hair, and went inside to wash his hands. It had been difficult. He was really still a boy himself. 

So many years later, it was much harder to watch his little brother. When he played, it wasn't with cats and hats and swords. His play now involved dead people, body parts, murders and other madness. How is a man to deal with that, he wondered. What was it in Sherlock's mind that led him to the fascination with the morbid and obscene? Sherlock had changed. Mycroft had watched him transform from the careless sun-kissed boy with messy curls to a darkly intense young man. He stared at the feed from the surveillance camera, noting his brother's appearance. High metabolism combined with little food intake and restless sleep left him pallid and thin around the edges, the warmth in his eyes gone and replaced with carefully guarded appraisal. Of course, in the interests of fairness, he thought it was worth noting that he was being removed from his own home by men whom he did not know.

The sheet was his own fault though.

~~

Later, at the palace, he studied another surveillance screen as John Watson entered. It was a curious thing to watch his brother change when the doctor came into view. He'd noted it before, of course - Sherlock was quite observant true, but it DID run in the family - and wondered yet again precisely what their relationship was. Because, when Dr. Watson entered the room, the transformation was absurd. There was a moment of silence. Watson attempted to remain collected and calm, though inevitably, he couldn't help but comment on Sherlock's appearance.

And Sherlock laughed. God bless John Watson, for whatever he did, because Sherlock laughed, real laughter, deep-throated and bubbling up from his chest. How often did his brother laugh, he wondered. Rarely, he'd guess. Most laughter is born of surprise, and how do you surprise a man who always knows what's coming? He shut off the screen and went to join them. Was it Watson who made him do it? Was it the situation? He wasn't certain, but he would accept, and be grateful for, any moment of joy that found it's way into Sherlock's life.

As he entered the room, he heard Watson, then his brother, speak. "...here to see the queen?" Sherlock had always been quick, but now he was sharp as well, he thought as his brother commented on his arrival. "Oh, apparently, yes," and again, the laughter that followed made Mycroft practically ache with happiness for him. Though he certainly wouldn't let it show. If Sherlock ever caught on that Mycroft rather enjoyed the banter and the venomous barbs between them, he'd likely stop in an instant. 

He lifted his head with a practiced air of composed irritation. "Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?"


End file.
